


the trick is not to mind that it hurts

by malfaisant



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 04:23:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20594651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malfaisant/pseuds/malfaisant
Summary: Vimes shakes his head and returns his focus to the map, marking the sectors methodically as areas they’ve surveyed, areas they’ve yet to survey, areas that previously turned up potentially promising leads—Areas where my body might be found. Those ought to be marked as well.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> timeline-wise, sometime after _Raising Steam_, although the only truly important plot point from that book for the purposes of this fic is that trains are a thing now.
> 
> as always, many thanks to Kiran for giving me the best ideas in this fic. join me on this journey!

Crisp morning sunlight filters in through the tall windows, trailing shortly after Moist as he steps down from the windowsill and into the Oblong Office. After taking a moment to brush the dust off the front of his suit, he shuffles through the files Drumknott put on the Patrician’s desk and takes a pile of them to the smaller desk set up next to it.[*] There’s an appointment later today with a reporter from the _Times_, then a mediation between the head of the Artificer’s Guild and the head of the Alchemist’s Guild, then a meeting with the Genuan ambassador, the Quirmian ambassador, the Dark Clerk reporting from her posting at the Borogravian border… Then after that he’ll only have about, oh, ten to fifteen appointments left, and then he can go get lunch.

But before all that, there’s that city council meeting in the Rats Chamber to get over with.

Appearances are important, but he would never have been able to pull off the black robes, so he settles for a dull brown suit. Incongruous with his established persona, but it does let him approximate his lordship’s capacity for stealth. In this outfit, Moist blends so easily into the background that people often find their eyes watering with the effort of keeping their gaze fixed on him.

In the time since he’s taken over, he’s never worn the lavish gold suit.

A small knock at the door alerts him to Drumknott’s disapproving presence, carrying a tray of tea, toast, and a newspaper.

“There’s really no need to break into your office, sir,” he says, setting the tray on Moist’s desk. “I’ve disabled many of the traps around the Palace since you persist in doing so, but only his lordship knew all of them, so I cannot guarantee that you won’t end up disemboweled by accident.”[*]

Of course he doesn’t get it—it’s the _ principle _ of the thing. “It’s not my office, Drumknott,” Moist says, as he opens the paper.

Drumknott pointedly doesn’t answer. Then, “The minutes from the last city council meeting are in the upper left-hand drawer of his lordship’s desk.”

“Yes, Drumknott,” he says, as he stuffs the dry piece of toast in his mouth.

“The meeting starts in 15 minutes.”

“Th’nks Dr’mn’dd,” he says, his mouth full of toast.

The Patrician’s assistant bows and walks out the door, leaving Moist to his breakfast and morning paper. He jots down a few notes with the pencil he absently stole from Drumknott a few moments earlier.

Unfortunately, their esteemed council have no appreciation for a fashionably late appearance, so he folds up the paper ten minutes later, but not before taking out the crossword page and stuffing it in the lower left-hand drawer of the Patrician’s desk. This takes some doing, with the drawer already full of six months' worth of crosswords.

Although, wait. Seven now. Seven months' worth of crosswords, gathering dust. 

One of the lords is definitely opening the meeting with that, he thinks as he walks down the corridor to the Rats Chamber.

“Who do you think it’ll be this time?” asks a quiet voice from behind him.

“Ten bux on Lord Venturi,”[*] Moist answers sullenly. Bloody assassins and their bloody sneaking.

“Really?” Lord Downey says thoughtfully. “I was thinking Lord Selachii myself.”

After all the members of the council were seated and Moist had called the meeting into session, Lord Selachii clears his throat and loses no time in losing Moist ten dollars.

“The most pressing item on the agenda is, of course, Lord Vetinari’s status,” he says, though to Moist’s gratification, Lord Venturi looks rightly annoyed at being beaten to the punch. “Today marks exactly seven months to the day since his lordship’s disappearance.”

“I don’t think anyone here is unaware of that, my lord,” Moist says quietly.

“Then if everyone is aware of the situation, then why have none of us acted?” Lord Venturi puts forward. “Surely the time has come for us to decide on a real successor, instead of this current stopgap measure.”

“As I and other members of this council have said in the previous”—Moist shuffles through his papers—“seventeen times this issue was brought up, installing a new Patrician would be in direct violation of the Patrician’s written decree.”

“The decree is null and void if the Patrician is dead, Mr. Lipwig.”

“’If’ being the operative word here, your lordliness,” Moist says. “Officially, the Patrician is still only missing.”

Lord Selachii sneers, and what a sneer it was. These nobs have really made a sport of it. “Officially, but everyone knows—”

“—that he is officially missing, and so he may officially still be alive, and so any attempts to permanently replace Lord Vetinari as Patrician will _ officially _be regarded as a coup in the eyes of the law—”

“Then it seems as though the issue here is that the law needs to get its eyes checked,” says Mr. Slant, his voice soft and dangerous.

Moist barely resists the urge to flinch. He’d been hoping against hope that the zombie would bow out of today’s proceedings, but that would’ve been far too convenient for a certain acting Patrician. “I’m afraid you would have to refer elsewhere for that, Mr. Slant.”

Mr. Slant darts a glance at the very large axe buried in the centre of the table, and the empty seat behind it. “Indeed,” is all he says.

“Keen, aren’t you all,” Queen Molly mumbles professionally, “just can’t wait to say Vetinari’s pushing up the daisies—”

Lord Selachii slams a dramatic fist on the table. “It has been _ seven _ months—”

“Councilmembers,” Mrs. Palm interjects, “this is a fruitless discussion. Mr. Lipwig’s hands are tied, and frankly so are ours, and we have no choice but to carry on as best as we can with the situation as it is.”

“That’s all very convenient for Mr. Lipwig, isn’t it?” Lord Selachii says, pointing accusingly at Moist. “Makes your temporary appointment not quite so temporary!”

“My lord, if you take such issue with my position, then I implore you to consider the following: if I step down now, I will be in direct violation of the Patrician’s orders, which is a position I do not wish to find myself in!” Moist says, in an uncomfortable fit of honesty. “The only way I can step down legally is if the Patrician is officially declared dead, which I do not have the authority to do either.”

“Can’t the investigation into his disappearance make such a determination?” asks Lord Venturi.

“Without a body, only the executor of his lordship’s will can make that decision,” Lord Downey says, speaking for the first time. At his words, everyone’s eyes are involuntarily drawn in unison to the conspicuously empty chair in the room.

“Has anyone… talked to him and explained the situation?” Lord Selachii says, after a beat.

A small laugh escapes Moist, which he quickly turns into a cough. “Are you volunteering, Lord Selachii? No? Then is anyone else here volunteering?”

Moist claps his hands at the ensuing quiet, a not-smile on his face. “So we are back at our impasse, and I suggest we table this discussion for the time being. Unless there are any further objections, I’d like Mr. Hammeringson of the Artificer’s Guild to brief us all on the latest status of the Undertaking’s extension to Goosegate…”

The momentum works in his favour, as it always has. Nobody brings up the subject again for the rest of the meeting, and Moist narrowly survives yet another encounter with bureaucracy.

“They’re right, of course,” Lord Downey says, having stalled his exit until everyone else had already filed out of the Rats Chamber, hat tucked beneath his arm.

Out of sight of Selachii and his ilk, Moist rubs at his temple. “This tyrant thing is really quite overrated,” he says. That bastard had made it look so _ easy_.

“Slant will find a loophole sooner or later,” Downey says. “Could make for quite a messy deposition, if it came to that. You might regret not taking up the mantle for good, or stepping down bloodlessly, while you still can.”

The loophole, of course, is a timely assassin’s dagger finding Moist and inhuming him such that he is unable to carry out Vetinari’s orders. But both of them know this very well.

“The arrangement stands,” Downey says. “I’ll let you know if a contract is put out.”

“It doesn’t change anything. It still isn’t my call to make,” Moist says, suddenly, immeasurably tired.

They both look at the Commander’s empty chair once more, an inseparable sight from the axe in the table.

“I don’t envy you, Mr. Lipwig,” Downey says after a pause, as he put on his hat, “You must convince him, regardless of the path you choose to move forward, but how is one supposed to make a dog come to heel when its master is dead?”

* * *

* While sentiment was certainly a driving factor in Moist’s choice to set up a different desk, his decision was not a little influenced by the mug on the Patrician’s desk, next to the ink stand, with the words '_To the world’s Greatest Boss'_ written on the side.

Though by no means an expert, one of his previous aliases had done a brief stint as a museum curator, at which time Moist had seen a collection of supposedly cursed artefacts from Klatch. He had decided against stealing those in much the same manner.

* Drumknott neglects to mention it here, but Moist could be inhumed accidentally in a number of other ways, including but not limited to beheading, impalement, poison, being crushed to death by giant rocks, being crushed to death by a ceiling of descending spikes, electrocution, or slipping on a patch of recently mopped marble floor. The acting Patrician _is_ aware of these possibilities, but Miss Dearheart is currently out of town on business, and with her a solid three-quarters of Moist’s self-preservation instincts.

* The term has entered the common parlance as slang for one Morporkian dollar (AM$1), being the market price of a freshly-skinned _bux_, the dwarfish term for Morporkian sewer rats.


	2. a lump of burning coal

**** **** Many scholarly works have been written about the nature of alternate realities, with a small but particular subset of that scholarship focused exclusively on the capacity of human choices to create divergent timelines. Colloquially, and to the consternation of certain scholars at the University, this phenomenon is popularly referred to as the trousers of Time.[*]

It posits thus, that even the smallest choices can be, on a grand enough scale, the root of a different branch of existence.

Of course, if we take this to be the truth, it does not necessarily follow that any of the lofty ideas philosophers have regarding the importance of free will _ have _ to be true. In fact, we might even posit the opposite—that the grandest, most consequential decisions do not, on a large enough scale, have any sort of real cosmological significance. It does not matter what you chose, or did not choose to do. Things simply _are_. They all get thrown in the wash regardless.

So, one can safely assume that there is a trouser leg where Vimes chose to go with the Patrician. If only, if only… but what logical purpose does it serve to agonise over something that was not done?

Vimes can almost hear the familiar voice echoing over his shoulder, asking him the question.

He rubs at his face, his calluses making a scratching noise against a jaw coarse with stubble. The map of the Sto Lat Plains swims before his eyes, almost but not entirely like how fish in the Ankh do not.

They’ve covered so much land between Ankh-Morpork and Uberwald, but then again, there’s so much land to cover between Ankh-Morpork and Uberwald.

_ ‘If only’ is a strict conditional, your Grace, _ the voice would continue, flatly, dispassionately. _Restrictive, unforgiving. It presupposes the existence of a set of circumstances where you could've done the exact right things, at the exact right times. Perhaps, instead of 'if only', you might consider a different conditional._

_Even if._

Vimes shakes his head and returns his focus to the map, marking the sectors methodically as areas they’ve surveyed, areas they’ve yet to survey, areas that previously turned up potentially promising leads—

_ Areas where my body might be found. Those ought to be marked as well. _

The pencil breaks in his grip. After taking a moment to compose himself, he stands up from his chair and opens the flap of his tent to ask one of the constables for a cup of Klatchian dark roast.

It’s not a ghost haunting him, because Vimes does not believe in ghosts. He knows it’s just the voice in his head that sounds like _ him_, a pale imitation roughly conjured up from the depths of his subconscious, way before anyone's disappearance. Every now and then it had spoken up, serving as the occasional being-of-unknown-moral-alignment on his shoulder, maybe to offer advice, or to tut-tut acidly about _the expense, oh dear, that will cost quite a chunk of the city treasury to repair, Vimes… _

Except nowadays, _ every now and then _ has become nearly every now, and every then.[*] Godsdamnit all, the voice hardly ever leaves him alone for long.

But he knows it’s all in his head. He knows it’s just his brain trying to make up for the lack. The voice itself has said as much, a couple of times, accompanied by a suggestion of a smile and the glint of sharp teeth. _How dire the circumstances must be, if you can admit that you miss me._

Dusk falls early on the Plains this time of year. Down the road from their camp, he can see the lanterns of the returning search party, bright in the blue-violet haze of early evening. A chilly breeze carries the smell of burning tallow downwind.

Oh, and cabbages, of course.[*]

A gangly constable hands him a mug of tar-black coffee, before stepping back to give Vimes a gangly salute. This far into their efforts, the search party has been pared down to the essentials. The city council had been badgering him about the investigation’s drain on Watch resources, and so he’d complied with their requests by funding the continued search efforts out of his own pocket.

“At ease, constable,” Vimes says. Then he pulls out a cigar and strikes the match on his breastplate.

It was supposed to be a simple diplomatic summit, a bunch of nobs and dignitaries congregating in Bonk to congratulate each other on the successful completion of the Ankh-Morpork and Sto Plains Hygienic Railway Line through Uberwald and out to Genua. Vetinari had been there to represent Ankh-Morpork, giving thanks to all involved for their assistance and cooperation, and also gratefully reminding all involved of Ankh-Morpork’s proprietary holdings in the endeavour.

“Can’t you just send Lipwig over instead?” Vimes had asked in the Patrician’s office, when Vetinari first told him of the summit.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, your Grace. All the major heads of state will be in attendance,” Vetinari replied, not bothering to look up from the letter he was writing. “And besides, Mr. Lipwig is currently far too busy with his recent appointment as the new Taxmaster.”

“Right. The position that _ you _recently gave him.”

“Yes, and I must say he is carrying on rather admirably well.”

Vimes shrugged. It wasn't as if Lipwig had any shortage of experience in persuading people to part with their money, mostly of their own volition.

“On the Altiplano Express Line, the journey to Bonk-Schmaltzberg won’t even take a day,” Vetinari said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Vimes waved off, “but I don’t exactly have the best history with Uberwald.”

Vetinari looked up from his letter sharply. “And how exactly is your personal history with Uberwald relevant to this discussion?”

They stared at each other wordlessly, though in Vimes’ case his mouth was opening and closing as he struggled for what to say, before finally sputtering, “I’m not coming with you?”

“Why on earth did you think you would be coming with me, your Grace?”

“I–” Vimes floundered for a moment. It was true that Vetinari hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort but… “You’re not suggesting going to Uberwald _ alone_? And you know I’d hate going there!”

Vetinari’s mouth quirked in that manner that made it clear he was not laughing at Vimes but if he were, he’d be very justified in doing so. “Does it surprise you, Vimes, that I don’t base decisions of international diplomacy solely on whether or not they’ll annoy you?”

Vimes snorted. “You don’t?”

Vetinari shrugged. “Not solely.”

“But you’ll need guards! A full security detail!” Vimes waved his hands about. “You’re going to _ Uberwald_!”

“None of which means you have to head my security _ personally_,” Vetinari replied. “I’ll leave the details to you, of course, but you have no shortage of competent men to choose from.”

“Yeah, and my choice would be me!”

Vetinari sat back in his seat. “Come now, your Grace. You’re a very busy man, and this would have you away from the city for an extended period of time. Surely you must have, at this point, learned how to delegate responsibility?” he asked, steepling his fingers. “In any case, it is out of the question that the two highest officials of Ankh-Morpork should both be absent from the city for the duration of the trip…”

Vimes had made more protestations, more complaints after Vetinari’s proclamation, but hindsight can be quite cruel in what it chooses to make clear. He eventually acquiesced to Vetinari’s position, assembled a detail of his finest watchmen to accompany the Patrician to Bonk, and stayed in Ankh-Morpork.

Maybe there’s a trouser leg somewhere in which Vimes’ dis-organiser malfunctioned at a different fork in the road, an imp becoming displaced in space and time, allowing Vimes to hear what might’ve happened if he hadn't chosen to stay in the city.

Vimes takes a sip of his coffee, his gaze fixed on the lanterns down the road.

On the border between the Sto Plains and Borogravia, there had been an accident on the return trip, an ambush by assailants unknown. A sable-black railway car had careened off the tracks and tumbled down a cliff, leaving behind the remnants of a violent crash, a fierce struggle, and blood. Too much blood for comfort. But no body.

No body, for what little comfort that provides.

There are no imps yelling at him this time around, but awful things always seem to happen when he decides to stay in the city.

Vimes stamps out his cigar in the dirt, and heads back into his tent.

If only, if only.

*

_ Even if you had been with me, there’s no assurance that your presence alone would’ve been enough to avoid this. _

(i wasn’t there to protect you. it was my duty. it _ is _ my duty.)

_ There’s no telling for sure, your Grace. Wouldn’t it be worse if I had gone missing under your protection? Imagine the added professional insult that would’ve made. _

(instead of how it is now? you going missing because of my carelessness?)

(...i don’t know, actually.)

(you tell me)

_ What do you think you should’ve done? _

(i should’ve insisted. i should’ve come with you.)

_ Perhaps. _

_ But hindsight is dangerous, Sam. _

_ Hindsight can destroy you. _

*

(Sometimes, Vimes finds himself answering back, late into the night, his consciousness hovering at the edge of dreams. First, there would be the pointed silence that was herald to a question, or an observation, looming over him like a wave just before it crashes on the rocks. Then, that calm, quiet voice, drowning out all the other voices that came out of the dark.) 

_ Indulge me, your Grace. How else might it have gone? _

(“Is this one of those times where you tell me something while implying that I ought to do the exact opposite?” he might’ve asked, in that other trouser leg.

“Your Grace!” Vetinari would’ve replied, his tone shocked and concerned. “I have no idea what you’re getting at.”

Vimes would’ve crossed his arms then, his expression sour enough to curdle milk.

“Then what can I do to convince you otherwise, order you?” the Patrician would have asked incredulously. “‘Commander, I order you to personally accompany me on this trip’?” 

“Understood, sir.”

“Vimes,” Vetinari would’ve said in concession, a long-suffering smile on his face, “have I ever told you how annoying you can be sometimes?”)

(The voice somehow gives the impression of a smile of its own, hidden behind a thin hand.)

_ How sentimental of you, Vimes. I suppose this must be what they mean when they speak about absence and fondness. _

*

Seven months. That’s how long Vetinari’s been missing.

Vimes pushes himself upright on the side of his cot, having managed his customary three hours of sleep. It creaks as he gets to his feet and makes his way to the other end of his tent, where a basin is set up with a small mirror and his shaving things.

He does his morning routine, putting lather on his face, sharpening the blade on the strop, before sweeping the razor across his cheek, along the underside of his jaw. The motions feel perfunctory. Vimes hardly has to think about it.

In a few hours’ time the sun will rise, and Angua will return from her evening survey of the woods, tired but none the worse for wear. She’ll give her report and a sharp salute. There’s a few old scents that might lead to something, but any solid trails are long gone, she will say. No new developments overnight, sir.

That feels perfunctory too.

But then again, what if today is the day the routine breaks? What if today is the day they find him? What if today is the day they find what’s left of him?

Would it be better not to know?

Conditionals are dangerous.

Hindsight can destroy a person but, Vimes thinks, only if uncertainty doesn’t get to him first.

Vimes wipes his face with a towel and finishes his morning shave.

* * *

* A different subset of scholarship is dedicated to the study of the fabric of the trousers of Time, as well as its fit, stretchiness, and proper wash instructions, the latter of which is a matter of fierce academic debate, and the cause of at least two blood grudges between rival philosophers.

* This cruel, inhumane mistreatment of an innocent figure of speech is, Vimes would grudgingly concede, entirely characteristic of a certain tyrant. With his lordship, even the most docile of words will turn around and reveal themselves so that you will wonder how you ever thought they were harmless in the first place.

* Cabbages are the Sto Plains’ seasonal winter crop, given its imperviousness to cold weather and the laws of narrative causality. While it would be more thematically appropriate for somberer odors like pine or sandalwood to pervade moments of contemplation and quiet despair, cabbages have no regard for proper narrative cues. As such, they are also available throughout the year as the Sto Plains’ seasonal spring, summer, and autumn crop.


End file.
